


Vinculo

by chromatoria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Imprinting, Imprinting, M/M, No Sex, Sherlock Holmes on the Asexuality Spectrum, because i cannot bring myself to write a sex scene nope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromatoria/pseuds/chromatoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where couples bond with each other upon first meeting each other. The rules of the game are pretty simple: one touch to realize the bond, and physical realization is pretty common (although not necessary). A bonded person can feel general emotions and communicate simple phrase across the way to the other, and when a bonded person dies the other half dies as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Although John would never admit it to acquaintances, he very occasionally liked to read (for the plot, of course) trashy bonding novels. It was no different than reading mystery novels or science fiction novels, really, and he liked to read about the conditions that came with bonding. The bonding in the novels, though greatly dramatized, was pretty accurate to the bonding that everyday people went through.

He loved reading the angst that came about from the teases with death that one partner would put the other through, knowing full well that the death of one's bonded caused the other to die. As a stoic and reserved person he was fascinated by the idea of having someone in his head at all times, and was frankly shocked at the idea of liking having someone in his head. John loved the idea of having someone understand him perfectly, although he was most interested in the process of initiating a bond.

A bond takes a single touch to be realized. Just a single touch that people hovered over and obsessed at and searched for years until they came upon it. Citizens who went to "bond-searching" meets, where everyone lined up and shook each other's hand in the hopes of finding the "spark", damned if it was unsanitary as all hell; the fact that, on the metro, everyone tended to consciously jostle around on the cab in the hopes of pushing up against their soul mate. John's parents had been bonded, and had left quite an impression on John that to be bonded was a gift rivaling the Promethean fire, and that if the heavens had smiled down on your life that you were blessed beyond compare. They described a chorus of trumpets, a sudden feeling of being on a cloud, all symptoms of being bonded that didn't seem to exist outside of trashy bonding novels.

This meant that when he did bond, he didn't realize it for what it was. He didn't expect it.

How could he have expected the great Sherlock Holmes, the detective grandiose, the tousled mess of brilliance and impetuousness that was very wholly male to be his bond?

(In fact, the first time John met Sherlock, he thought he was an arrogant sod.)

He had taken John's phone, his fingertips brushing for just a moment against John's as they did so. John felt a shiver go through his body, which he attributed to a sudden gust in the room, and Sherlock gave John a catlike glance before sending the text. Sherlock asked him about his military career, and soon he had idiotically jumped head-first into a flatshare with an almost complete stranger. At the time, John partially chastised himself for deciding to live with an unknown man who-he was later assured-was strange, didn't have or make friends, was guaranteed to analyze you based on the most insignificant of details, had proved each of these things true, and had told him his address before his name.

Looking back, this was an effect of the bond they had formed in that singular instant, and no one could blame him.

(Even after bonding, and after knowing the detective well, John still thought he was an arrogant sod, although now he had proof.)

\---

"Do you think we're bonded?

This causes Jim to pause. His hands seem to slow down as they continue to clean up the splatters. "Of course," he replies, dainty hands carefully wiping up the mess. His nose wrinkles. He doesn't like getting his hands dirty. Spotting a stain on the wallpaper, he begins to scrub at it, sighing as the liquid on the towel runs onto his hands. Frowning at the towel, he stops cleaning and checks his nails. "Why do you ask?"

Sebastian shrugs. He focuses on the rope he's just untied and begins to coil it in short, sure movements. He places it in the duffel bag and sets out collecting the other equipment. Each instrument is unloaded and wiped down before finding its place in the bag. He zips it up, feeling Jim's eyes on his back, and shrugs again.

Jim sighs, exactly like a petulant child that has been forced to clean his room after he makes a mess. He sticks out his hand and passes the towel over to Sebastian. "Why did we do this inside anyway, we knew it was going to make a mess."

Sebastian finds himself cleaning up what James did not. He grins as he rubs the towel against the patterned wallpaper. The towel scrubs the wall until he's pleased it's clean, and then Seb tosses the rag into a bucket filled with similarly stained towels. He turns to face the center of the room and Jim, and smirks at him. "'We?'"

James remembers with a wrinkle of his nose and a tilt of his head. "Oh, yeah," he says, nonchalantly, and crosses the room to watch Sebastian continue cleaning. James perches on the top of the sofa and sits, unmoving, as Sebastian works.

Sebastian turns his attention to the problem on the floor. He considers it for a moment. It's possible he was bonded, Seb thinks. Someone else could have died because of what we did.

Oddly enough, he doesn't seem to mind.

Sebastian lifts the body with a small grunt. He carries it over to a small table on which a long black bag has been opened up, and places the body, painstakingly careful, into the bag. He zips it up slowly, and wipes the blood off his hands and arms with a few swipes of his calloused hands against his skin.

James stands up and walks toward Sebastian. He fiddles absently with Seb's tie as he mutters, "I've got somewhere to be later, for a while..." He picks a few imaginary specks of dust off of Seb's rolled-up sleeve and grins a wide, reptilian smile up at Seb. "Might be gone for a while." He steps back and seems to examine what he's done, as if Seb is a work of art and he's just put the finishing touches on it. Jim seems pleased, and murmurs, "Don't wait up," as he begins to amble towards the door. Sebastian begins to lift up the equipment, careful that the guns don't shake much.

"Oh, and don't worry about being bonded with me, Sebby." Jim turns to face Sebastian completely, standing confident and sly, hands in his pockets. He gives Sebastian a thorough once-over, murmuring, "Even though we are..." Seb, for his part, tries to look more poised-as much as he can with a body over his shoulder and a bag of weapons in his hands. Jim's face quirks up in a slanted grin-he'd noticed-as he turns slowly, letting his eyes linger on Seb's. "I was always yours." He saunters lazily out the door and Seb hears his voice calling, lilting down the hall-"You were always mine."

Sebastian stands there for a few moments afterwards, forgetting about the weight on his shoulder. Jim has already left, is long gone when Sebastian said softly, "Yes, sir."  
\---

"Sherlock," John hisses as he tried to keep up with the taller man, "Sher-Sherlock!"

Sherlock keeps running, the git, and it's all John can do to follow him. "Damn it, Sherlock," he hisses, "Stop!"

The man in question finally whirls around, all billowing coat and long limbs, as though he hadn't heard John (and John knows he did). John nearly runs into him in his haste. Sherlock's eyes, slanted and bright, gleam with the buzz of a brilliant deduction and the excitement of the chase. "Hurry, John," he orders, entirely too loud for shadowing a suspect, and before John can respond he rushes off to dramatically fling himself behind a building where the woman can't see.

John sighs and follows him, and places himself just behind the thinner man, flat against the wall. Slowing his breathing, analyzing the situation for any threats to his and Sherlock's life, fingers brushing the safety of his gun, he watches Sherlock. Knowing him, he'd just as quickly get himself hurt as solve the case.

They chase the suspect and find that yes, she was guilty of whatever Sherlock had suspected her of (the detective, bless him, had left a few key details out of mention; for one, the reason why they were chasing her) and by a much simpler deduction, had indeed killed the victim. Lestrade takes the suspect into custody, and talks to Sherlock, trying to understand his deductions. John listens, not really paying attention, and catches bits of words occasionally. He hears "illegal, probably," and "behave yourself, Jesus Christ, this is Scotland Yard!" and pieces of Sherlock mocking the lackeys at Scotland Yard whenever they try to talk to him. John smiles absentmindedly, glad that it didn't escalate to full blown deductions of the poor men. Lestrade asks John for a statement, then, and lets John talk about the case for a while. Sherlock, still riding off the high of a case solved, interrupts occasionally to point out errors on John's part, and John doesn't really stop him.

At some point Sherlock gets bored of Scotland Yard, and shrugs into his greatcoat. Lestrade says goodbye to the two of them, settling at his desk with a tired look on his face to handle the paperwork, and Sherlock turns to John.

"Dinner?" he asks, pulling on his scarf.

John pulls on his coat and gives a succinct nod. "Starving."

They leave the room, only to see Anderson coming down the hallway in the opposite direction. He's carrying a few boxes full of, presumably, case files. John makes it a point to pull Sherlock closer to his side of the wall, but the hallway is small enough that they still rub against each other on their opposite paths. Anderson's face screws up when Sherlock bumps shoulders with him. It's not a big bump but Anderson reacts dramatically, almost dropping his boxes, and it's all John can do to not laugh at him.

"Watch it, freak," Anderson spits, catching the boxes quickly.

"Simply amazing," Sherlock says, looking awed at Anderson. John can tell this isn't going to go well.

"Come on," John whispers, pinching the sleeve of his coat, attempting to pull Sherlock away. But Anderson takes the bait.

"What's amazing?" he sneers at Sherlock. John knows what's coming, he can tell already, but he still would like to avoid a confrontation if he could. He tugs at Sherlock's sleeve, but Sherlock continues anyway.

"That they'd allow mentally deficient monkeys to carry case files from room to room." Sherlock smirks at him, and leaves Anderson spluttering in the hallway. John tries very hard to not laugh at Anderson, (Sherlock doesn't try very hard at all) ultimately failing as they reach the street.

They hail a cab and head to Angelo's, always the after-case meal by unspoken agreement. Angelo is elated to see them-he always is-and doesn't even need to ask what they want. They get the usual, and sit to eat. Both of them are absolutely starving. It's the first time Sherlock's eaten since he began the case, and it's the first time John has eaten today.

"Of course, you realize Lestrade will have to tell you something about that," John says mildly, sitting down at the table and shrugging off his coat. He's supposed to be Sherlock's caretaker-most often referred to as the 'boyfriend' position by the other officers when they thought John couldn't hear-but Sherlock does whatever he wants most of the time.  
"I would expect nothing less." Sherlock gives John the same smirk he gave Anderson, but this time it's more of a half-ways smile than a condescending grin. He ponders for a moment. "That wasn't even my best."

"I'd noticed," John says, and Sherlock stops talking. John doesn't really mind-Sherlock stops talking often and with surprising unpredictability. (And when he is talking, he does far too much of it for anyone's ears.) Sherlock look at the table and absentmindedly fiddles with the napkins there, staring holes through the tabletop.  
Angelo brings their food at that point. They pause for a minute to get silverware and things set up, and then start eating. "Lestrade thinks that the aunt murdered that other bloke about a month ago, and suspects that with the aunt in custody-"

"They won't." Sherlock cuts him off neatly, eating his noodles with far more grace than John would have thought possible.

"What do you mean, 'they won't?'"

"The murders won't stop. The two cases are completely unrelated. So unrelated I'm surprised that Lestrade made any kind of connection at all between the two." Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, continuing: "If you'd noticed anything at all, you'd have seen that the old murderer had an entirely different MO than the aunt-"

John stares at Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock continues to eat his food with smooth, practiced movements-funny, John thinks, since Sherlock doesn't eat that much at all-as he deduces, somehow never stumbling over the words or spilling a tiny bit of food.

And John realizes that they're bonded.

It's a huge revelation-out of nowhere, no less. John tries to be bothered by it, but hell, he's been through a lot. There are much worse things than being bonded to this asshole.

So they eat dinner, and they talk, and Sherlock is an asshole, but John doesn't mind.

(Sherlock doesn't mind either.)

\---


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian is sleeping peacefully in his bed. (As peacefully as Sebastian Moran allows himself to sleep, at any rate.) His hand is wrapped loosely around the grip of a small gun underneath his pillow, safety still on.

There's a tiger in his dream, a scarred, lean tiger, and a sleek magpie. The magpie is perched on the tiger's shoulder, its talons squeezing the flesh and fur almost to the point of pain. It's stolen a crown, and is laughing, laughing hard, the crown skewed and tilted as the magpie clutches onto the tiger to avoid falling.

The bedroom door opens with the whisper of oiled hinges. Sebastian is still sleeping, inexorably attached to watching this mad magpie laugh. It laughs so hard its crown falls off, glittering as it glides to the floor and breaks there, the tiger's shoulder now showing pricks of blood that runs off and ruins the smooth surface of its fur.

As the crown crashes the bed is pushed down and the covers are lifted and a lean body slides in, cold hands searching for Seb's warmth and Seb is awake, now. The shock of the hands are still cold on his body, and James quietly moves in closer and tangles his legs with Seb's (cold feet too). Seb registers immediately that Jim is still wearing his suit, although now it has only the slightest trace of dust on it and the tie is loosened.

Seb wonders what Jim did that he was too tired to wear his pajamas. Jim has his own Westwood nightclothes. The man is stupidly focused on having the best in men's apparel, Seb thinks (but he would never tell him that)-and he's going to wear his suit to bed.

His eyes look Jim up and down, assessing his health. He seemed okay, just tired enough to climb into bed almost fully dressed.

Jim murmurs under his breath and moves in even closer, his head bumping Seb's collarbone and the rest of his body seemingly all long limbs tangled with Sebastian's. "What did you say?" Sebastian whispers, leaning his head forward so his cheek touches the top of Jim's head.

James looks up, forcing Seb to lift his head and look down at him. Jim's eyes are sleepy, mostly closed, just a sliver of chocolate brown visible. "I said, I'm glad you didn't pull the gun on me."

(Sebastian has totally forgotten about the gun by now.)

He continues, his eyes still closed, "I never would have stood for it," and his mouth is smirking just enough to show a bright white tooth, his canine. He drops his head again, and folds himself into the space Sebastian leaves with a sigh.

Sebastian rests his head on Jim's again. "I'd never pull a gun on you, boss," he says softly.

This pleases Jim, and his breathing becomes slow and even, and he falls asleep. Seb watches him for a while, noting miscellaneous sleeping habits Jim has (his eyebrows are always creased; he mutters a lot; his hands still fidget tirelessly) until, finally, he falls into slumber too.

\---

John cannot make his coffee.

He is tired and sore, and he cannot drink any coffee.

There are fingernails in his mug ("for an experiment") and blood in the coffeepot ("it's an EXPERIMENT") and god knows what else in the rest of the kitchen, and John has no coffee.

"Sherlock!" he calls, trying to keep his voice steady. "What did I tell you about experiments in the kitchen?"

Sherlock comes out from the bedroom-which is not logical because Sherlock does not sleep-dressed in his robe, his hair a curly mess, surly as a three year old boy. "I don't know," he snaps, folding himself into the couch, "I've deleted it, since I must have categorized it into the rest of the ordinary idiocy that comes out of your mouth!"

John stands tall, flexing his hands angrily. "Right." He grinds his teeth and heads for the stairs. "I'm heading out," he states, grabbing his coat and pulling it on sharply as he exits the room.

Sherlock manages to call, "Wait, John-" before cutting himself off, the door slamming shut at the same time. He had been fully prepared to apologize. _I never apologize_. So he folds up onto the couch and begins to deduce.

(Although the answer is fairly obvious.)

\---

James and Sebastian are legally bonded a few days later. The paperwork was a hassle and not really necessary (most bonded couples didn't feel the need to register, even though they got a few perks as far as the law went), and the test proved nothing they didn't already know, but they were legally recognized as Andrew and Robert Scythe. James was so fussy about the names Seb just let him choose both and James wouldn't settle for anything "half-assed". 

Jim didn't want a bonding ceremony, and neither did Seb, so they just spent a few days in bed to commemorate the occasion.

\---

When John returns, his arms are full of books. "I'm sorry I stormed out," he begins, and he sets the books down on the counter carefully.

"Don't be." Sherlock is perched in John's chair, in his deducing position, although he's changed into jeans and is wearing his coat. "I was acting like a child. It was only fair." He waves one of his hands as if he can wave both apologies away.

"Oh." John stands awkwardly for a moment, then gestures to the counter. "I got you some books." They were all medical journals, and various mystery books. John buys Sherlock mystery books occasionally, so Sherlock can have something to do between cases. Although Sherlock's never read a mystery book he couldn't deduce within the first few pages, John catches him reading them when Sherlock hasn't talked to John in days and there hasn't been a murder in a week.

"I'd noticed. A good try, really, but I've read all of these."

"Oh." John can only stand and try to come up with a response, before failing and making a sharp turn into his bedroom. "I'm going to-"

"Wait." Sherlock calls, and John halts halfway there. John hears the creak of his chair as Sherlock stands, and the muffled sounds of his feet on the floor. Sherlock's hands are cold on his shoulders as he's spun around to face Sherlock, and the taller man is incredibly close.

"Sherlock, what-" John breathes, but his blood is pumping far too loud and too strongly, and then Sherlock leans down and kisses him and he can't focus on anything anymore.

Sherlock kisses just like he deduces-with passion, and unsurprising calm, and with excitement for the outcome. Sherlock is slowly and carefully getting to removing John's clothes, his hands still cold as they lift up John's shirt to get at the skin underneath. John's hands are moving, trying to touch all of Sherlock at once, and trying to close the space between them. There's fireworks and electricity and it feels like John's skin is far too hot for his body and if John had any doubts that they were bonded, they're gone now.

John understands suddenly now why people try so hard to bond. If every moment felt like only a fraction of this, well, he felt bad for those who were unbonded, that they were missing out on such a fantastic feeling. He can't believe how alone he was without even knowing it. But then Sherlock pulls his shirt off completely and kisses his chest, sucking at the soft skin and John can't think entirely coherent thoughts anymore.

\---

Sebastian makes a cup of coffee, and he makes a cup of tea. Both cups, along with the teapot, sugar bowl, and various sweets are placed delicately onto a tray which he holds onto with one hand in much the same way a waiter carries his tray, and he goes to find James.

Sebastian walks into the office to find Jim perched carefully in his lush chair. Papers are strewn across his desk like a kaleidoscope, the documents and pictures overlapping until barely anything was viewable. Jim is just as disheveled, his suit jacket and vest (scandalously!) unbuttoned and wrinkled, his usually neat hair ruffled from running his hands through it, eyes bloodshot and sitting in deep dark pockets. He's murmuring to himself, gently, almost inaudibly, repeating the same sounds over and over. Looking down at the table, Sebastian scans over the myriad of papers covering the desk. He recognizes photos of the great S. Holmes, along with diagrams and long, long plans of something big coming. He probes at Jim's mind but finds a heavy barrier that burns Sebastian's mind with a sharp sting. Jim's eyes dart up to meet Seb's and Jim puts one thought into the open for Seb to read; it's wordless, but it's very clearly an aggressive "no".

So Seb chooses to leave Jim's determined fervor, but places the tray on the floor as quietly as possible, before backing out of the room and shutting the door soundlessly.

James leaves in the early morning, without any luggage or spare clothing, so quickly that Sebastian didn't even have time to notice.

\---

John laid on the bed for a few moments afterward. His mind was still blank, trying vainly to organize random thoughts and emotions into anything coherent. His knees are weak as he follows Sherlock out the door. Sherlock is back in his own chair, the TV blaring some crap show that always seemed to be on. If John hadn't had a mind-blowing orgasm at Sherlock's hands (mouth) the moment before he'd have just assumed Sherlock was just having another bored day.

John's still completely naked and only the tiniest bit self-conscious as he leans over to kiss Sherlock hard and fast. Sherlock kisses back, just as passionately, and John tries to reach down toward Sherlock's thighs, reaching lower. But Sherlock is as collected as ever as he instead diverts John's attention to John's own body, rising in the chair and moving down to John's throat. John isn't distracted though, and instead pulls at the button on Sherlock's jeans.

"Don't," Sherlock murmurs under against John's lips, gently pushing John's hands away from his crotch.

"Don't what, Sherlock?" John mutters, "I was trying to return the favor."

"I don't." Sherlock looks vaguely embarrassed before returning to the chair. "I don't do, well, that." 

"Oh."

And now John feels ridiculous, standing in the middle of the living room complete naked. He then lifts his shoulders in a tense shrug before turning to retrieve his clothes. He dresses quickly, then leaves the room to sit on his chair. He can sense Sherlock is worried, and leans over to kiss him softly.

“Don't worry, Sherlock. I, uh," John has never had to deal with this sort of thing before, but he doesn't want to leave it at that, "respect you and don't need you to do, well, that. I didn't bond with that," he nods precisely, stuttering a beat before completing the thought with, "I bonded with you." His face flushes and his ears are red now, he's sure, but he still turns to Sherlock and smiles warmly. He leans and gives Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek.

Sherlock’s face grows into a smile, slowly at first, but faster until he’s grinning ear to ear. John and Sherlock both turn to watch TV, smiling to themselves.

It's crap telly, but somehow, with Sherlock, it's completely worth sitting through.

\---

James returned late in the morning a few days after, and he looked hungry. His whole self looked hungry, his eyes daring in their dark hollows, body thin and wiry but still very dangerous. Seb worries and tries to find Jim's mind, but he only finds slight anger and bitterness and clever quick thoughts. But then Jim comes up and bites Seb's neck, hard, and he loses focus. They spent the day in bed, and the night sleeping.

\---


End file.
